Brightening
by Kay Willow
Summary: AU, vaguely from novel canon, bizarre: A tense confrontation becomes tenser. Two people who don't understand each other find a connection.


**.brightening.**

He shouldn't do it, and he knows that he shouldn't. For one thing, he doesn't want company in his long descent into madness, and so he shouldn't encourage it. For another thing, this man is probably his brother. And for yet a third thing, a matter of days ago they were a hair's breadth from killing each other.

But he watches the dark one while they pause by the stream and he remembers that black hair sliding over the edge of Morgif's silver blade and he shivers with lust.

Somewhere in his mind he knows that not long ago he would have been disgusted at these thoughts. He would have hated himself for even thinking that he enjoys killing, that he craves battle. The dying part of him that still thinks that way knows that he is insane -- a menace. Look at how quickly and gleefully he turned upon the man who was once his ally.

The dark one seems so lost and helpless without his memories; very different from the cool and decisive figure he used to pose. The swordsman knows that he should speak, tell the story of their shared past. He doesn't speak. He has no desire to help the dark one: the seething corruption in his blood removes any interest in helping others.

His desire is for something else entirely.

It is not kind, when he finally abandons his resistance and turns upon his companion. The dark one gasps under his mouth and he doesn't care, swallows the breath and forces his way deeper, harsh enough to bruise and scrape soft lips against teeth. The shape in his arms feels so good, so right against him, that he clutches the dark one's shoulder until the Sage sucks in a pained breath from the pressure of his grip.

Anyone reasonable would have tried to leave, shoved him away and scrambled to their feet. He thinks he would have enjoyed that-- Perhaps finally taking the excuse to kill the dark one the way he was going to days ago and has threatened to do more than once in the time since. Perhaps not; perhaps he would have been too lost in this hunger to draw a blade.

The dark one does not leave. Instead long fingers twine into blond curls, a fleeting caress against his scalp, and the lean form shifts to take his weight more comfortably. He finds that his kiss has softened, a sensuality coaxed from him by pliant lips.

The acceptance infuriates him all over again. He bites punishingly hard at the throat bared by the Sage's robe and his dark head falls back, a moan shuddering from beneath the tortured flesh. "Why?" he growls, not quite sure what he is asking. The reddened skin draws him back, to stain that flawless marble further with sharp suction.

"Why," the dark one says softly, his voice thrumming through the mouth at his neck, "should we both be alone together?"

_Are you so lost without your memories that even this semblance of intimacy pleases you?_ whispers the dying part of him, and he finds himself further maddened. He seizes the dark one in another fierce kiss, again intended to be vicious and only melting into hunger when he feels his companion's touch shift to his sides, seeking the ties of his tunic.

Then one hand falls to his belt and he yanks it away in a blind rage. The dark one flinches again as his arm is twisted and his wrist squeezed tight enough to grind bones together. It is a long, terse moment before his head begins to clear, before he realizes what he has done. A warrior's reflexes and a lunatic paranoia will allow no one to part him from his sword.

The light one -- the name is a cruel joke his companion might not even have intended; they both know who is the real dark one here -- presses his lips to the captive wrist in wordless apology before releasing it. Just like that everything has changed.

He pulls his companion upright, this time the kiss nothing more than heated, and removes the belt himself, setting sheathed Morgif to one side where he knows he will be able to reach it in a heartbeat if necessary. The dark one helps him to shrug out of his tunic, trailing smooth soft caresses over the bared skin as they move. Erotic sensation shivers through the swordsman's body, fresh and clean where he has only known himself enmeshed in corruption.

"How do you do it?" he wonders, the words half-moaned as the dark one's mouth closes around his nipple. He doesn't need this -- he is already so hard that each new jolt of desire hurts. "How is it that you make me feel human again?"

_Stop, you must stop. It only hurts more in the end._

He hisses as the dark one shakes his head, and the silk skein of his companion's hair rustles against his chest. "You _are_ human."

Such pretty lies. He is a demon more than any other that has been termed that by the superstitious and the scared. He can feel his soul rotting away. But somehow the dark one brings out all the little traces of light that are left in him: he wants to explain himself so that those black eyes will not turn from him in disgust.

If he could bear to he would lie back and let that curtain of dark hair surround him and block out the world, wrap him in warm oblivion where he doesn't need to know how deviant and unnatural he's become -- but his mind whispers to him forbiddingly of threats, and the madness begins to creep up his spine again even contemplating such a surrender, and the dying voice cries, _Stop this, he is your brother!_ Too much conspires against him. He cannot do it.

So he buries himself in the Sage, in his warm mouth and long arms, and urges the dark one to recline again. His companion is utterly disinterested in the potential game of power here, doesn't seem to notice or care the vulnerability implicit in being pinned to his back. The dark one only slides his hands over wiry muscle, smiling into the kiss and twisting to let his legs fall apart.

It doesn't matter to him now if this man is his half-brother or the ally who stood beside him on the battlefield or a bewildered stranger with no concept of his own identity. Neither of them know who they are anymore. But this is the most alive he's felt in weeks, short of dancing with blade soaked in the blood of his enemy. This is what he needs.

More clothes are shed; when he curves his hand around heated flesh the dark one arches silently into his touch, graceful even in his arousal. He licks and soothes the skin he attacked earlier and gives a teasing nip, and his companion chokes on some sound, the hands twisted again in blond hair tightening to hold him close.

He always keeps oil, to massage into muscles that ache sometimes from killing, but he uses it now to ease two fingers into the Sage's body. The dark one clutches at him, digging into his shoulders with urgent hands, and presses back without hesitation. He hardly seems to need preparation; he was made for this. A shudder runs through the swordsman as he fights every inch of him that cries out to take what he wants and forget the courtesies. He starts a gentle rhythm, encouraging movement, searching and knowing he has found what he wants when the Sage is startled into a full-throated groan, thrusting up to meet him.

They are both breathing hard as he stretches his companion further, ignoring his burning erection despite the sparks racing in his blood from the cool skin pressed against it. He thinks he might find a whole different kind of madness if he has to hold back much longer.

The dark one insists, "I will not break! _Please._"

His self-control shreds with those words. He surges up to claim a kiss from the dark one, who leans into the contact and drinks him in eagerly and gasps with loss when the fingers inside him slide away. The swordsman gives him no time to mourn -- he positions himself, sinks teeth into the Sage's shoulder and pushes into him in a single rough gesture.

His companion curves off the ground to welcome him, panting and hands tight around his waist. He loves it, craves it, the merciless desire still there in the back of his mind when he sets into rocking motion, too impatient to wait for the dark one to accomodate him. But there is no need for such caution: from the way long legs slide behind his hips to lever their bodies closer, he is not the only one too lost to pleasure to worry about pain.

The dark one meets his every harsh thrust, returns the bruising force of his kiss, shudders as a hand fists into the black hair at the base of his skull. The swordsman holds nothing back and his companion takes it all and is still so beautiful, so wanton and inviting. He might never be satisfied that he has had enough-- For the first time he understands his father's ridiculous lechery, if any of those women were half so good as this.

He is too deep and too far to realize that the corruption in him has taken over again, that he would be brutalizing a more delicate lover. He cannot catch his breath to find air, but he manages to growl with delight and redouble his pace when the dark one leans back and slips a hand between them, writhing as he touches himself. It does not take long then for the Sage to lose control, release tearing a strangled moan from him, his body thrashing beneath the swordsman's weight.

He cannot stop or slow. His voice is hoarse, his skin coated with sweat. He nuzzles the pounding pulse beneath his lips and yearns to bite down hard, to claim, to taste blood, just a little more--

The dark one tenderly strokes damp hair from his forehead, and he cries out, stiffening as unexpected release floods through his body.

They collapse together and lie in the shade of the tree. Only animal instinct gives him the presence of mind to roll to the left, where he has placed Morgif, so that the blade will be close at hand if there is any threat. But the day is bright and clear and he can't imagine what might threaten them: not with the sun so warm, and the dark one smiling so peacefully, like he has decided that even without his memories he can be content.

For the first time in more than ten years, he feels like a human again; the corruption that roils within him vented and banished for now and no one harmed, nothing to hate himself for that will lead him to spiral downward into self-destruction.

At least in this moment, 'the light one' feels like a fitting description.

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(Disclaimer: Fic was written based on the faintest awareness of what may or may not have been novel canon and is probably wildly AU. Sorry.)


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